He saw her across a crowded shelf.
Her deckle-edge was seductively deep, her endpapers velvety. She was a first edition, probably autographed. Any man would want to write his name in a book like her.
She noticed him perusing her pages, and blushed. He had a hard spine, and a crisp dust jacket. His eyes were capitalized, and in an obscure font designed in Amsterdam in 1768. She caught herself glancing at his flyleaf, and looked away, mortified.
They were in the YA section, and she was acting like a common galley.
“Can I have your ISBN?” he whispered. He could nearly see her addendum.
“Yes,” she cooed, helpless. “Yes.”
A couple of years ago, for the 110th Anniversary of the terrific indie University Bookstore in Seattle, 110 writers wrote pieces of 110 words. This was mine, a miniature romance novel, the only thing in that genre I’ve written. (So far.) Books are sexy. I became a writer in order to get closer to them.
UBS is terrific :] A lot of times I think about transferring to the U District store because it’s so awesome but then I remember commute/parking @.@ So I’m content with my tiny branch store.
- holden caulfield: hey i just met you
- holden caulfield: and this is crazy
- holden caulfield: but even though you're phony and i hate goddamn phonies, and you're a girl and girls piss me off because i've never given them the time, i'm lonely and paying prostitutes to talk to me
- holden caulfield: so call me maybe
My little brother got into outer space and stuff so my step-mom bought him a place mat with all the planets on it. When I first saw it, I was upset, because it was newer and so Pluto wasn’t labeled. I was about to say something when I noticed something…
Pluto is there.
The artist remembered Pluto.
The artist drew Pluto crying.